


With you, anywhere

by Pyrosane



Category: FC Barcelona - Fandom, Football RPF, Manchester City - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 04:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrosane/pseuds/Pyrosane
Summary: It's been four years.





	With you, anywhere

They buy the tacky yellow table with peaches painted into it because Kun wants to.  
_The unevenness gives it character_ , he says. _I’m sure it’s considered lucky somewhere, somewhy._  
Lio thinks it the ugliest thing in the house. Poorly crafted and crudely assembled, its framework is glaring against the rest of what they own. Most of all, crooked legs force the two of them to sit closer, always closer, when they eat - so naturally, Lio loves it. _To keep our food from spilling_ , he says. _I'm sure that's_ _considered unlucky somewhere, somewhy_.  
  
In Viseu, everything is white or brown brick-red. Where there is color, there is Kun, chasing after little things, childish things, like large bubbles, music, the smell of street fries and a ball, but only when they are sure nobody is watching.  
As ever, Lio chases after Kun. As ever, Lio catches up, but not before Kun has already arrived and waits, impatiently, with a steady smile and a ready finger, pointing towards something he has pointed at a million times before, and will point towards a million times again. _But it is different each time_ , Lio thinks. Different in the angle of his arm, in the pitch of his voice, the fireflies in his eyes. _I’m sure that’s considered love somewhere, somewhy_.  
  
The flat they live in is small but it is not uncomfortable. When they first decided on Portugal, Kun was drunk and Lio even drunker. In a sudden flash of equal parts dumb and reckless, they bought a place to live located in a town they hadn’t heard of until that night, or early-morning, or both, depending on how each of their minds translated 3am into language and time.

 _We could buy anything_ , Kun had said, giggling between hiccups, daydreams in his voice. _We could buy the moon. We could buy the moon and even some stars, to give the moon company._  
_But we can’t buy anyone_ , replied Lio.  _I couldn’t buy you_.  
_Sure you can. You already have._  
_But not with money. I bought you with these._ Lio, nearly missing Kun’s chin as he leaned in for a kiss, thought of how easy it had been to do this. Or, in his exact words, stupid and slurred even to himself, _That was too easy._ And then, _Shit, now I’m stuck with this idiot forever. After this life, will be another, and in that one too, I’d follow him to the edge of any moon in any galaxy in any universe. Of course. Of course, of course._  
  
Sober, Kun had made the first wisecrack comment - _haven’t you dribbled into Cristiano’s backyard enough times already?_

Sober, Messi made the first retort - _too bad his defense let you in, too._  
  
But they moved anyway, selling some things, giving others away for free, and merely leaving the rest behind. All they arrived with in Portugal was a bag of travel-sized toiletries they tried to use for far too long, and each other. _At the end of this tube of toothpaste_ , they would say. At the end of this bottle and at the end of this meal, we will move back. We will move back, and get on with our lives.

Still, they began replacing every tiny bottle with hefty ones, and every frozen meal with pots and pans and things bought from local farms. Not before long, Portugal became their lives, and they got on.  
  
It’s been four years since the last match. And another four since the one before then. Soon, they stop keeping track of how long it’s been since they were last called up, and then they stop keeping count of the years altogether. It’s been four years, but it’s also been eight, and nine, and many more that have been buried into hail and sunshine, pineapple squares, curtains thrown back and reimagining every cloud as a shape they have never known to be real. There were hours of sleepless nights spent scribbling their names into each other’s skin, and somewhen along the line, they decide that they are enough. Two men are enough. _Who needs nine other guys when we’ve got each other?_ International pitch or not, Kun has a way of shrinking the world around Lio until all that remains in Lio’s vision is the two of them, the dream team, playing like they can take the victory back from Germany, playing like their lives depend on it, playing like they aren’t kicking a ball around in a backyard hidden by hedges as large as Lio’s name has been written into history.  
Their only audience in this garden is a row of clay pots Kun accidentally bursts open with a mistimed header. _Fucking hell_ , says Messi, _Neuer should’ve been here to catch that one._ _  
_ They replace the pots with new ones, as well as a small statue of the Virgin Mary. _For luck_ , Kun says. Afterwards, every pot stays upright.

When they stop translating years into numbers, Kun and Messi start translating time into gray hair and wrinkles, unyielding, branching out from the outer-corners of Kun’s eyes and into the thumbs of Messi’s hands when he smoothes them over Kun’s face, now exactly the same way as he did some thousands of years ago, generations of trophies and new names and new famous faces ago. (still, every new wonderboy is exalted as the new Messi. _Maybe he really is a half-god_ , Kun thinks. And then, _But he, too, is not immortal. Even so, he is not immortal._ )  
  
Lio never hangs up his boots. Neither does Kun. But they stop buying new ones. Their last boots are two pairs, identical except in size, gifts to each other for their somewhenth anniversary.

 _You’ve always been able to read my mind_ , says Lio.  
_My thoughts exactly_ , Kun shoots back, not a single beat skipped.

Eventually, these boots too feel the effects of each second, insignificant at first, but soon becoming mammoth waves of granulated time. The heels wear down and spiked edges are scuffed and sanded into nubs, and then into flat rinds. _The unevenness gives in character_ , Lio says. _I’m sure that’s considered lucky somewhere, somewhy_.  
When Lio’s boots finally fall apart, Kun carries him home.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in FOREVER wow. Anyway the WC came back and of course Los Albicelestes made me emo again so here is another Kunessi fic, written from the depths of my weeping heart on Tuesday night after Argentina qualified for the knockout round and made me feel a happiness and love for something I haven't felt since the LAST WC. So YES, it's been 4 frickin years for me, too.


End file.
